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  MORE PRAISE FOR

  SHE OF THE MOUNTAINS:

  She of the Mountains is a wonderfully textured book that knows better than to offer hasty answers about identity—rather Shraya draws us into a series of highly poetic and hyper-intimate scenes that allows us to feel and explore for ourselves.

  —Amber Dawn, AUTHOR OF Sub Rosa and How Poetry Saved My Life

  She of the Mountains is a forthright, honest, damned sexy book written, gleefully and counter-intuitively, in a lyrical, epic, transcendent style. It is not your typical debut novel, but rather one ripped apart at the spine and then reconfigured via alchemy, Tantric mysticism, the open verse of social media, and pure, raw talent. Sensual, smart (and smart-assed), She of the Mountains is the beginning of something big, bold, and—hold your purse!—glamorous.

  —R.M. Vaughan, AUTHOR OF Compared to Hitler

  Given the intersection of Vivek Shraya’s writing and his music up till now, it should come as no surprise that his newest book is an equally compelling fusion of stories, voices, and textures. She of the Mountains is a touching and transporting prose-poem that has a music all its own.

  —Rakesh Satyal, AUTHOR OF Blue Boy

  SHE OF THE MOUNTAINS

  Copyright © 2014 by Vivek Shraya

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any part by any means—graphic, electronic, or mechanical—without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may use brief excerpts in a review, or in the case of photocopying in Canada, a license from Access Copyright.

  ARSENAL PULP PRESS

  Suite 202–211 East Georgia St.

  Vancouver, BC V6A 1Z6

  Canada

  arsenalpulp.com

  The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the British Columbia Arts Council for its publishing program, and the Government of Canada (through the Canada Book Fund) and the Government of British Columbia (through the Book Publishing Tax Credit Program) for its publishing activities.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to persons either living or deceased is purely coincidental.

  Illustrations (including cover) by Raymond Biesinger

  Design by Gerilee McBride

  Edited by Susan Safyan

  Author photograph © Zachary Ayotte

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication:

  Shraya, Vivek, 1981–, author

  She of the mountains / Vivek Shraya.

  ISBN 978-1-55152-561-7 (epub)

  I. Title.

  PS8637.H73S54 2014

  C813’.6

  C2014-903727-9

  C2014-903728-7

  To Shemeena

  Contents

  Parvati

  Sati

  Kali

  Ganesha

  Acknowledgments

  In the beginning, there is no he. There is no she.

  Two cells make up one cell. This is the mathematics behind creation. One plus one makes one. Life begets life. We are the period to a sentence, the effect to a cause, always belonging to someone. We are never our own.

  This is why we are so lonely.

  Briefly, ever so briefly, we linger as one. Our true first. Then we divide over and over again, always by two.

  Inside the body of another, our heart is constructed. Inside the body of another, our heart drums its first beat.

  Other organs form too. Skin stretches, bones harden, teeth bud. Sound is captured. Light is perceived.

  If given the choice, we would stay here forever, sleeping. Pure and golden potential. But outside, they wait for us, sing to us, name us. They sculpt expectations we will not live up to, imagine medals we will not win, dream of highways we will not build, and hope for reformations we will not make.

  Pushed out of the body of another, in sweat and screams, we experience the greatest rejection we will ever know. Out of warm fluid and into rough, biting air. No coo or pat or praise can ever compensate for this violence.

  This is why we are so lonely.

  PARVATI

  I am the mother of the universe.

  I am the planets and the years of darkness and light in between.

  I am the oceans, the sky, the land, the air—the four corners.

  I am life itself, the spark that makes a heart pump, that keeps a tree alive for centuries, green and reaching.

  I am Parvati.

  Today, I need a shower. Life can be filthy.

  I apply a paste made of crushed sandalwood and jasmine to my skin with a circular motion. Right-hand fingers slowly spread over left hand, over left wrist, around left elbow, up left arm, over left shoulder.

  I sing, but no one can hear me. The notes are too high, the melody too beautiful. Not even my husband can hear me—not just because he is out hunting right now. Shiv, my beloved Shiv, is often buried deep within his own mind, seduced by the possibility of an even quieter silence, a firmer stillness, the kind that borders death. Sometimes I think he has more in common with the corpses in that graveyard he has been dancing in lately than he does with me.

  The First Song was born from pure grief. It happened the instant I felt the heartbeat of the first life form, my first child, stop. I was at the foot of our mountain Kailash when my mouth opened in pain, and the first notes, too high to be a scream, too beautiful to be a howl, ran up from my diaphragm through my throat and into the dawn. Being married to Shiv, Lord of Destruction, I understood the necessity of death, but this did not make my loss any easier to endure. Days passed in song and mourning, and I vowed never to create life again.

  But is there anything more consoling, more exhilarating, than creation itself?

  I look down at my body, covered in brown paste that lightens as it hardens, and wait patiently. When the paste is firm and tan, I gently peel it off, this time starting at my right toe, over right ankle, up right calf, over right knee, up right leg. I sing a different song, my voice cascading like desert sands, each peak unique and transient. The tiny hairs along the newly exposed skin respond to my voice, standing at full attention. But it’s not just my own body that responds.

  I notice that the crumbled paste in my hands is softening to my song, turning golden. Excited, I continue singing and removing the paste from my body, adding it to the other remnants in my hand. My song gets clearer and faster, the flow of air in my throat running effortlessly back and forth over the scale, stopping briefly at the mid-notes, creating the sound of wind gliding over rivers and eroding stone.

  I am naked now. All the paste has been removed and formed into a radiant ball of clay that vibrates with the sound of my voice. My hands take over: they pull, ply, roll, mould, and stretch the clay.

  I know what’s happening in my hands. I know this feeling so well, but every time, I weep. With every sprout of grass, every bursting new star, I weep.

  When I clear the water from my eyes, I see that I am standing face to face with a statue of a young boy. With my final note, he opens his eyes.

  Without hesitation, I pull him into my arms and say: Your name is Ganesha. Ganesha, my son.

  He says nothing, but I know he can hear me, his eyelids fluttering. I tell Ganesha to guard our home while I rinse off.

  Let no one in. Under any circumstance.

  It is not protection I seek, but a moment for myself, a moment undisturbed by the prayers and plights of my children. As I finish the final part of my cleanse, rinsing the oil and salt of creation off my body, I can’t help but sing as I think of my new son. For a moment, I think I can even hear him humming along in the distance, and again I cry.

  When I emerge, I find Ganesha’s head on the doorstep, next to his headless body.

 
The first time she put her hand on his body, he winced.

  And the second time.

  The third time, he cried.

  The fifty-seventh time.

  Then, gradually, he began to lose count. He relaxed. Her touch was still painful, but now, instead of fearing it, fearing what her hands might discover, the ugly they might find, the coarseness of a terrain unclaimed or untravelled, he anticipated it. He desired it.

  After years of hiding and being unseen, her touch was a deep thawing, a memory of heat lost long ago.

  GO!

  He waited for the boys to push past him before he picked up his feet and trailed behind with a slow, contented jog. Every so often, when one of the boys passed him on their fourth or fifth round of the track, he would catch a whiff of their sweat and competitive spirit. He recalled what his mother had said about his long legs being destined for greatness as his body picked up speed. For a short distance, with every thrust forward and every leap into the air, he felt boundless, weightless. Looking up at the sky instead of straight ahead, he briefly mirrored its vast possibility. A shortage of air soon deflated his flight back to a jog. Panting, he reminded himself that the exhilaration he had momentarily experienced was what mattered.

  This logic was wrong and was corrected with two words. You’re gay, the other boys said when he finished the race last.

  At first, he was certain that they could have used any two words. The assault was in the repetition:

  you’re gay, you’re gay! YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay! you’re gay, you’re gay! you’re GAY, You’re Gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re Gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, YOU’re gay, you’re gay! you’re gay, You’re Gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay. you’re gay, you’re gay! YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay! you’re gay, you’re gay! you’re GAY, You’re Gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re Gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, YOU’re gay, you’re gay! you’re gay, You’re Gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay. you’re gay, you’re gay! YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay! you’re gay, you’re gay! you’re GAY, You’re Gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re Gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, YOU’re gay, you’re gay! you’re gay, You’re Gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay. you’re gay, you’re gay! YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay! you’re gay, you’re gay! you’re GAY, You’re Gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re Gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, YOU’re gay, you’re gay! you’re gay, You’re Gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay. you’re gay, you’re gay! YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay! you’re gay, you’re gay! you’re GAY, You’re Gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re Gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, YOU’re gay, you’re gay! you’re gay, You’re Gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay. you’re gay, you’re gay! YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay! you’re gay, you’re gay! you’re GAY, You’re Gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re Gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re gay! YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay! you’re gay, you’re gay! YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay! you’re gay, you’re gay! YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay! you’re gay, you’re gay! YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay! you’re gay, you’re gay! YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay! you’re gay, you’re gay! YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay!

  You’re gay became a virus that spread beyond gym class, past the mouths of boys who seemed to be jealous of his friendships with the prettiest girls in the school. The replication forced him to wonder what it was about the particular sounds that constructed such a small word—GG-AE-EY—that was so contagious.

  One afternoon, he strode swiftly to the back of the library where the giant school dictionary rested. His eyes looked straight ahead so that nothing in his periphery could distract him and take him off-course. Of all the places on the school grounds—the mezzanine, the west entrance, the washrooms, and the parking lot—the library was one of the least popular. It was a forgotten ground where old stories and old library staff waited to die, but he often found himself there because books (and the characters within) were some of his closest friends. Here, words existed only on pages, and he was grateful for that silence. He also appreciated the Dewey Decimal System, comforted that every topic had its place and number and every book belonged somewhere. When he reached the dictionary, it was already open and words commencing with THR- stared back him. He flipped through chunks of pages at a time, slowing down as he reached G. He momentarily paused at game and garage and gavel before finally arriving at gay. He scanned the small type quickly and shut the book.

  He was surprised that the definition of gay included the words merry and cheerful because the word was always uttered like a grunt or a burp or a fart even, the kind of sound your body makes when it’s trying to clear something out. As he walked away from the dictionary and toward the exit, he wondered if he seemed particularly merry or cheerful, and if so, why were these unlikeable traits?

  He instantly thought about his family’s most recent drive to Lahore Sweets & Restaurant.

  Stop laughing! his dad had yelled, turning his gaze away from the road ahead and directly onto his eldest son in the back seat. Hoping to divert some of his dad’s anger, he looked at his younger brother Shanth, who had told the joke about their Sunday school teacher at which they were both giggling.

  Why? With all the suffering in the world, it’s good that we have a son who laughs so much, his mom pushed back.

  Ever since his voice changed, his laugh … I can’t listen to it.

  Don’t listen to your dad! Don’t stop laughing, son, his mom had said, turning around to look at him with the stern but caring expression that was generally reserved for the morning before a class presentation, the subtext: You can do anything!

  As he left the library, he passed Ms Sinclair, the librarian. He had always admired her upright posture, despite her heavy mane of grey hair, and secretly thought of her as a witch—the good kind—because of her ability to know exactly which book he needed to complete, whatever assignment he was working on, or to satisfy his latest curiosity.

  Did you find what you were looking for? she asked, predictably.

  He didn’t smile or respond politely as he typically would have.

  The following week, he did his best to exemplify one different, non-cheerful mood each day, pretending he was auditioning for various roles in a play for an invisible panel of judges. On Monday, he was grumpy, which was easy enough because everyone is grumpy on Mondays. He did not style his hair or tuck in his shirt or say thank you when the bus driver handed him a transfer. On Tuesday, he was mournful. He wore all black and listened to Fiona Apple on his Discman. But the you’re gays persisted, regardless of the careful extraction of all things cheerful from his disposition. When Friday arrived, and he appeared exhausted, it was not an act.

  What’s wrong? Kevin asked.

  Kevin Wheeler was one of the few males he knew who didn’t seem to be preoccupied with his gayness. At least, not when they were on the morning bus together chatting about Kevin’s latest stalker (whom he eventually would date), confiding about their ongoing family dramas, or flipping through the cop
y of Playboy magazine that Kevin had stolen from his older brother. He didn’t care what he and Kevin talked about. For these thirty minutes, he cherished sitting close to another boy, imagining that this proximity and intimacy meant that he and Kevin were friends, he and Kevin were brothers. Once, he made the mistake of waving when he passed Kevin in the hall on the way to social studies. Kevin had looked right at him with an expression he had seen on the faces of other boys, eyes squinted and lips frowned, and then looked the other way. He never gestured at Kevin at school again. He understood that, at school, he was a liability that Kevin couldn’t afford and felt grateful for their special bus time when Kevin could be his true self.

  I can’t figure out why everyone keeps calling me gay.

  The g-word had never come up in their conversations before, and he had been thankful for this asylum. But after the week’s defeat, he didn’t have the motivation to make up a story about what was bothering him.

  It’s the way you use your eyes, Kevin responded, shrugging his shoulders as though the answer was obvious.

  He spent that night staring at his eyes in the mirror, wishing he had asked Kevin to be more specific. The dictionary had made no mention of eyes, but could it be possible that something about the way he saw or blinked said gay? He began fantasizing about a life where he could see with his eyes closed and the gay was sealed under his eyelids, or rather, a life in which he couldn’t be seen at all, free from the scrutiny of others. The next day, he tried to minimize eye contact, looking down for safe measure. But when he bumped into Chuck Treeman by the lockers, Chuck’s response was, You’re gay!

  He attempted a different approach, this time paying close attention to the variables necessary to elicit a you’re gay in the hope of uncovering a pattern. He was much more successful in this endeavour. You’re gays usually followed a display of weakness—like when he tripped or couldn’t carry the stack of chairs from the back of the classroom to the front—or any behaviour or interest akin to that of his girl classmates. You’re gay was a whip attempting to classically condition the weakness and the girl out of him.